


Back in the Good Ol' Days

by ronandhermy



Series: Good Ol' Days [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian are in their forties with a little bit of domestic bliss. </p><p>Written in response to a prompt by allshamelessallthetime on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in the Good Ol' Days

Everybody knew Ian Gallagher, former Lieutenant of the United States Army, honorably discharged due to injury after his fourth tour in Iraq, and now ROTC trainer, did not tolerate people interrupting his training. It didn’t matter if it was a parent, a teacher or even the superintendent of the school district, they could all take a flying leap as far as Gallagher was concerned when he was training his cadets. In the hour, or sometimes two hours, that he got these boys and girls before or after school was the only time he had to instill discipline, respect and a respectable knowledge of all things tactical and deadly. Outside of training, for that was what it was always referred to as, he didn’t care what the kids got up to so long as they didn’t wind up in Juvie. 

“Private Jenkins,” Gallagher shouted, as a young boy, maybe fifteen, attempted to sneak in to the rear of the running pack of cadets, “what do you think you are doing?”

“Shit,” the young Latino boy muttered under his breath as he jogged over to his commanding officer. 

“I asked you a question solider,” Gallagher spoke again, looking directly into the kid’s eyes. 

But the boy gave no response. He stood straight, at attention, looking forward without any hint of give. 

“Why are you late?” Gallagher asked, taking note of a new bruise that was on his cadet’s collar bone.

“There is no excuse sir,” Jenkins replied, the perfect little solider.

“Run a few extra laps,” Ian ordered, before saying in a quieter tone, “After training come and see me. We have some things to discuss.”

“Sir, yes sir,” the boy said, before taking to the track. 

Ian shook his head. Jenkins was a good kid but like most people in the Southside he had his personal problems that usually involved addicts or drinkers or debt or abuse or some combination of the above. And just like a true Southside kid Ian knew Jenkins wouldn’t take any help even if it was offered. Not outright anyway. 

Sighing, Ian picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Mickey letting him know he’d probably be a bit late coming home. Mickey was working at some construction site laying pipe downtown recently and usually came home fed up and looking for a fuck. He normally wouldn’t bother with the text but he doesn’t feel like giving Mickey another reason to bitch today. Not when he was going to be trying to get the dark haired man to come to Debbie’s birthday party. 

All he gets in reply is a single word: douchbag. 

Well Mickey was nothing is not consistent. Even after over twenty years of a relationship Mickey’s predictable behavior still made Ian laugh to himself. But not in front of his cadets of course. They were all convinced that Ian Gallagher was carved from stone and ate babies’ bones for breakfast. 

Once training was over Ian made sure to grab Jenkins before he tried to avoid the inevitable confrontation. Instead of giving him a lecture, like he had been anticipating, Ian just subtly suggested putting to use some of the grips and holds they had learned earlier in the year. Perfect against opponents who were larger and for avoiding leaving any marks as evidence. Jenkins had nodded his understanding at Ian’s meaning before taking off. 

Ian sighed, thanking whatever powers that be that he was no longer a teenager subject to state control. Finishing up the week’s paperwork, and making special notes in regards to each cadets improvements and failings, he began to make his way home. Along the way he stopped at the Kash and Grab, somehow still running, to grab a quart of milk. Linda’s daughter was the one running the counter now that she was done with college and she greeted Ian warmly as he made his quick purchase. 

He didn’t stay to chitchat instead making his way back to the Milkovich house. When Terry had died, a drug related incident was what the official report said, the Milkovich boys had had a pissing contest over who would get the house. Mickey eventually won, partially due to the fact that Mandy took his side. Ian would admit, with a vicious little grin, that it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction fucking Mickey in that house knowing Terry was probably rotating in his grave over it. He didn’t care if it made him seem petty, he’d earned the right to be a shit about certain things.

He always found it amusing that the rest of the neighborhood just assumed that Ian and Mickey were roommates. They thought Mickey needed the cash of a boarder and that Ian, who still occasionally had flashbacks that resulted in blackouts, needed someone who wouldn’t be afraid to restrain him if he reached for a gun out of reflex. Sometimes he would laugh about how willfully blind this whole place seemed to be, refusing to acknowledge a partnership that was older than most of the kids on the block. 

When he got home he found Mickey sprawled out on the couch, a beer clutched in his hand and an arm thrown over his eyes. The TV was on, some football game neither of them cared about, but the sound was off. Mickey was convinced the set was going to crap out at any minute but Ian didn’t see anything wrong with it. It had been a constant point of disagreement for well over a month.

“Picked up the milk,” Ian comments as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Hmm,” was all the response he got. Whether Mickey would admit it or not the construction job was hard on his back. At forty he could still kick a punk’s ass but laying pipe for eight hours a day took it out of him. When he really felt soar he’d let Ian gently rub his back to make the pain go away, but he would never admit that to anyone. Ever. 

“So Jenkins came in with a new bruise today,” Ian began, talking about his day as he putzed around the kitchen. 

When there came a lull in Ian’s monolog Mickey asked, “Want me to kick that kid’s pseudo-daddy’s ass?”

“Not yet,” Ian remarked, after briefly considering it. “Let’s wait and see if the kid can handle it. If he can’t then we’ll do something.”

“You’re such a fucking softy man,” Mickey commented.

Ian rolled his eyes before grabbing a beer and heading to the living room.

“I mean it, you’ve gone soft in your old age,” Mickey laughed, thinking he was hilarious.

Ian just came over and gave Mickey a quick kiss before settling into the beat up recliner. “If I’m old that must make you a corpse,” he said before taking a swig of beer.

“Yup. Guess that makes you a corpse fucker,” Mickey replied, as he moved the arm from over his eyes to behind his beginning to grey head. 

Ian just rolled his eyes again before saying, “So, it’s Debbie’s birthday this Friday.”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Mickey said, his posture becoming defensive, “I’m not fucking going.”

“I still don’t see why not. It’s not exactly like my family doesn’t know about us,” Ian replied, mild annoyance seeping into his tone. 

“Look, I don’t wanna go,” Mickey shot back, beginning to sit up.

“Don’t give me that crap. I know you like Debbie so that can’t be the reason,” Ian continued.

“Dude, just let it go,” Mickey barked.

“Just come to the damn party. For like five minutes even,” Ian half-pleaded, half-demanded. 

There was silence as Mickey and Ian just stared each other down. After a few minutes Ian finally caved and, sighing, said, “If you go to the party we’ll get the new TV.”

“Done,” Mickey said, his smirk rubbing his victory in Ian’s face. 

Well now Ian was grumpy as he settled into the recliner with a slight pout. A thirty-something year old should not be pouting in such an adorable fashion but none the less Ian did. 

“Aww come here,” Mickey said, sounding a bit exasperated as he gestured for Ian to come to couch.

“Why?” Ian asked, sounding like a teenager again.

Mickey rolled his eyes this time. “Because if I’m gonna blow you there is no way I’m kneeling on the floor.”

Ian was up like a shot and sitting next to Mickey in a flash, his pout wiped from his face by an elated smile. Even after all these years Ian was still the most eager fuck Mickey had ever had.

“So fucking easy,” Mickey muttered as he undid Ian’s pants.

Any reply Ian might have given turned into a moan as Mickey took Ian’s cock into his mouth. Ian knew he’d been played but at that particular moment he didn’t much care. Not even bothering to muffle his moan as Mickey took him deeper Ian's last real thought was, he didn't care that he'd been played if this was what losing the game meant.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments or Kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
